


you are so brave and quiet i forget you are suffering

by hubrisandwax



Series: Shameless episode codas [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5x10 shameless au, Anal Sex, Bipolar Ian, Discussions of mental illness, Dugouts, M/M, Porn with Feelings, SO, i guess lol, ian and mickey need a lot of time to have conversations and fun and sex okay, minor violence (as in the punch from the promos happens but... doesn't lol bc i am not a masochist), speculation fic, this is now an au ofc, which i expected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubrisandwax/pseuds/hubrisandwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5x10 <s>Speculation<s></s></s> AU; Ian feels suffocated by Mickey and the Gallagher's intense care, and therefore seeks space and time to think at an old haunt. Mickey eventually finds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are so brave and quiet i forget you are suffering

**Author's Note:**

> I Disregard Your Canon and Substitute My Own, or, at least if 5x10 turns out to be disappointing, i can be comforted by my own headcanons! purely speculation and me trying to justify the spoilers, episode stills, and stuff that's happened in the promos for my own benefit only (with the addition of porn). it's basically mostly what i want to happen in the episode within logical bounds, not what i expect will happen. sorry not sorry.
> 
> i was reluctant to include the punch, because i'm not really comfortable with it happening, but i wanted to make this as canon compliant as possible, hence why i wrote the events unfolding like they do. i hope what i've written is sensitive enough, all things considered.
> 
>  
> 
> **EDIT: this is now an AU (of course) of Ian/Mickey's dugout scene, as of the airing of 5x10.**

Mickey finds Ian in the baseball dugouts.

He’s sitting on a bench, snagged in the fluorescent light and gazing out over the darkened pitch with his injured hand cradled in his lap. Mickey knows Ian heard him arrive, but Ian doesn’t move. Doesn’t acknowledge Mickey’s presence. This is the third place Mickey’s looked, and he’s pretty tired, now, but he’s mostly relieved that Ian’s safe.

“Hey shithead,” Mickey says on approach, voice soft. He’s worried that Ian will try to bolt again if he gets too close, so he stops a few feet away and regards Ian carefully. “You could’ve fucking texted. It would’ve saved me an hour stuck out in this damn weather.”

Ian doesn’t respond, just continues to look into space. Minutes stretch, long and empty: a car passes on the street outside; a siren wails somewhere in the distance; the sprinklers turn on. The air smells like dust and damp earth and fresh mown grass.

Eventually, Ian says, “This pitch was the first place I remember seeing you, you know. You were swearing your head off at the little league coach during practice, laughing your head off with a group of boys, but you looked so sad when you thought no one was looking at you.” His words are slow, deliberated, and he shifts, but doesn’t turn to look at Mickey. “I begged the coach to let me join your team because I wanted to be your friend so bad.”

Mickey’s not sure how to respond. He takes a step forward. “Come home, Ian. Your family’s worried.” The words are an echo of lines spoken in a club what feels like a lifetime ago, Ian out of it on a very different cocktail of drugs, but still just as non-respondent, just as distant. It’s frightening.

“Two weeks later, you pissed on first base because coach wouldn’t let you on fourth. You were kicked off the team. I never even spoke to you.” 

Mickey decides to try and play along. “You point?” he says. He pulls out his phone and types a text to Fiona, ‘ _Found him. All okay,’_ because it’s not worth making Ian’s family worry any more than they already have. Admittedly, Mickey does have vague memories of a kid in too-big clothes with a mop of curly red hair and face full of freckles staring at him and pissing him off during his brief stint trying to play baseball. Now doesn’t really feel like the time for reminiscence, though, so when Ian doesn’t say anything, Mickey moves until he’s standing in front of him. 

“Ian. You’re gonna miss your alarm.”

 _That_ gets a rise. Suddenly Ian’s uninjured fist is balled and he’s glaring up at Mickey. 

“I can look after myself, Mick. I’m not a petulant child like you and Fiona and Lip seem to think I am.”

Mickey sighs, running a hand over his face. He had a feeling this was gonna be a battle. “Yeah, well, asshole, maybe you should stop acting like one.” It’s a low blow. Ian’s been good, all in all, really – hasn’t missed a single dose since the clinic - but Mickey’s frustrated. He’s tired of Ian’s moods, how often he sleeps, his determination to make everyone around him almost as miserable as he himself is. And Mickey gets it – he honestly, really does – but right now, he’s losing patience. He wants something, anything, to remind him that Ian is still definitely _Ian._ “I’m sorry we fucking care.”

“Have you ever thought that just maybe,” Ian begins, voice even, jaw tight, “your care is suffocating? That it hurts?”

“Ian - "

“No, Mickey.” Ian releases a heavy breath. _“‘Ian, don’t push yourself’_ ; ‘ _Ian, have you taken your meds’_ ; _‘are you okay, Ian?’_ I can’t even fucking _breathe_.” He runs his good hand through his hair, which flops back into his eyes. He’s really worked up, now. “I’m my own goddamn fucking person.”

“I hate this almost as much as you do, okay? But  -"

“Fuck you.” Ian’s standing, now; Mickey steps backwards to avoid getting caught in his space. “You don’t _have_ to hang around. This is my burden, Mickey. No one asked you to share it with me.” 

The stare at each other for a few long, intense moments, eyes narrowed, postures taught, Mickey’s jaw working in anger until the idea suddenly strikes him out of nowhere: “Hit me.”

Ian falters. “What the fuck?”

“I said hit me, shithead. If you’re that fucking angry, hit me.” Mickey curls over to prove his point, arranging his body until he’s orthodox stance. Ian stares at him incredulously. Mickey knows that, were Ian not under the influence of medication, he’d never hit Mickey. Hell, Ian didn’t even touch Mickey when Mickey was beating him to a bloody pulp, even though he could have stopped Mickey with one move (has, in the past, to prevent Mickey from hurting himself). Ian’s resolves shifts quickly now, though; one second Ian looks like controlled energy, maintained chaos, and the next his face is ugly, angry, sharp like the back of a thumbtack. He draws his good fist back, his own body shifting as he prepares to throw his weight behind the punch.

It’s going to be a mean right hook, Mickey realises the second before Ian moves. Might even be a king hit. 

Ian goes for it. 

However, the drugs slow his movements. As a consequence, he’s not half as coordinated as he used to be, so instead of taking the hit like Mickey would’ve once had to, he quickly blocks it and snags Ian’s fist, swinging him around. Ian struggles against Mickey’s grip; Mickey falls against the fence. There’s a sharp pain at his temple; wet-warmth trickles down the edge of his face. He and Ian struggle for a moment, flailing limbs caught in a rough almost-embrace, before Mickey manages to get the upper hand, pushing Ian around and up against the fence. He traps Ian’s wrists, avoiding his injured hand but preventing him from fighting further, and it’s not until Ian finally stops moving that Mickey hears the god-awful tearing noises.

They’re coming from Ian’s chest. 

“Ian,” Mickey says, stricken, panicking as Ian’s head drops. “Breathe, man.” 

“I- I can’t,” Ian says, choking on the words, and then suddenly he’s sobbing without tears. It’s awful. Mickey has only seen Ian cry twice since he first met him; the first time, when he turned up on Mickey’s doorstep saying, “I need to see you,” eyes red-rimmed and wet, and again, two years later, only a single tear in the waiting room of the psychiatric hospital. Mickey wants to do something, anything, to help; feels nauseous with his own emotion. It’s too much.

He releases Ian’s wrists and pulls him against his body, cradling Ian’s head, kissing his neck. Before Mickey’s realised what’s happening, though, Ian is pressing his mouth against Mickey’s, urgent, desperate, almost biting at Mickey’s lips. Mickey freezes and pulls away. Ian’s breathing is almost regular, now, but he still looks too pale, too unwell. The skin under his eyes is smudged a dark purple, skin sallow, his mouth a dry pink gash across the too-white planes of his face.

“I need this, Mick. Please,” Ian says, gripping tightly at the collar of Mickey’s shirt. They haven’t fucked since before the porno; before Ian took Yevgeny; before the clinic. Mickey’s been too scared of being too much, of breaking Ian. But now – 

Mickey leans forward and presses his mouth back against Ian’s. 

It’s a familiar dance, then. Mickey leans into Ian and kisses him like he’s a drowning man and Ian’s a breath of air. He licks at the seam of Ian’s mouth, pushing his tongue in, gripping the back of Ian’s head, fingers knotting in Ian’s hair. Ian whimpers. 

"You're bleeding, Mick."

"Don't care." It's from where he fell before, he knows, but it doesn't hurt. He's had far worse.

“Do you…” Ian gasps against Mickey’s skin, hot and needy, and Mickey doesn’t trust himself to speak again, so he nods while Ian reaches into Mickey’s pocket and pulls out his wallet. Mickey watches with wide eyes as Ian takes out the sachet of lube and the spare condom (they haven’t used a rubber in forfuckingever, but Mickey’s glad Ian’s now rational enough not to take any chances until he’s been checked). He backs up to the bench, pulling Ian with him, trying to hurriedly undo his own jeans one-handed, the other fisted in Ian’s shirt as Mickey tries to pull Ian’s mouth towards his again. Ian smiles a little, long fingers making quick work of Mickey’s pants. It’s fucking cold but also fucking worth it.

Mickey doesn’t think there’s anything fucking better than this, Ian’s mouth on his, Ian’s hand wrapped around Mickey’s cock. Except maybe Ian’s dick in his ass, but Mickey’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak.

His own fingers pluck futilely at the buttons on Ian’s pants, and Ian moans.

Because Ian can’t ever fuck without his shirt off, Ian’s tugging his coat off his next, before he starts to peels the various layers of clothing off from his torso, despite the cold. He throws the clothes somewhere along the bench.

“What do you want?” Mickey says, fingers running along the ridges of Ian’s abs, and Ian replies, the corner of his mouth quirked suggestively, “Everything.” Of course he does, because he’s a cheeky fucking romantic. Mickey wouldn’t have it any other way. Ian’s more like his old self than Mickey’s seen him in a long while. The most alive Mickey can remember seeing him since before the sedation, and no longer all manic energy. He’s happy; even despite his earlier episode, it seems. Mickey’s also happy as a consequence – it’s exhilarating. 

“I want you to ride me,” Ian says seriously this time as he bites at the bolt of Mickey’s jaw, and Mickey groans. He’s more than happy to accommodate Ian.

Mickey’ll have a hickey tomorrow, he thinks, and the thought makes his cock even harder than it already is.

Taking their time, getting lost in each other’s bodies, a little while later Mickey’s lying later with his back on the benches whilst Ian lazily thrusts three fingers in and out of his hole. He’s kissing his way down Mickey’s body, making these tiny little keening noises as he does it, eventually reaching Mickey’s cock and mouthing at its head. The sensations are almost overwhelming Mickey; Ian always knows how to play Mickey’s body just right, how to pull him apart slowly until Mickey’s no more than a garbling mess. Tonight’s no different.

“Let me get the fuck on you, Ian,” Mickey gasps when everything gets too much and Mickey feels like he’s falling. Ian’s lazily fisting his own cock as he sucks at Mickey’s dick, sliding up and down the shaft in time with his thrusting fingers. He pulls off with a pop and smirks down at Mickey.

“Shift over.”

So Mickey moves along, lube leaking out his ass, until Ian’s stretched his long body across the bench. Ian hisses a little at the cold wood against his back; Mickey reaches over for Ian’s clothes to tuck the shirt underneath his back and his coat underneath his head. He rolls the condom over Ian’s cock with mouth, Ian jolting at the sensation, before Mickey’s easing himself down onto Ian’s cock. The burn is some kind of sweet release, the drag even better. Mickey starts to move, fucking himself slowly on Ian’s cock as Ian’s hips thrust upward, refusing to remove his mouth from Ian’s as he braces his elbows either side of Ian’s head.

“You’re not _making love_ to me, are you, Mick?” Ian says while Mickey’s mouth is occupied by Ian’s neck.

“Fuck off.” Mickey’s trying to get the angle just right, and Ian deciding to be a Chatty Cathy isn’t helping. He continues to rock his hips and decides that staring at Ian’s changing expressions is almost as enjoyable as kissing him, really. He’s always been vocal and expressive during sex. Mickey finds it a huge turn-on.

Ian grabs Mickey’s cock, then. Mickey groans loudly. He figures that while going slow is all right, they both need something a little more grounding tonight, so he rises up and starts to work himself more roughly and much faster against Ian’s cock. Ian’s eyes are blown black, and he’s making these needy little moans as his eyes begin to roll into the back of his head. His hair is a total mess. Mickey figures that he must look much the same.

Mickey knows Ian is close when his hand on Mickey’s dick loses all rhythm. Mickey can feel his own orgasm building as he grinds his ass down, and then it hits him and they’re coming together, Mickey groaning low and guttural, Ian’s noises higher, almost in harmony. He whites out for a moment, and when he comes to, he’s flopped across Ian’s chest, spunk sticky against their stomachs, the muscles in his legs cramping, but he’s the most comfortable he’s been in a fucking long time.

That little boy Ian remembers so clearly, the one with black hair and blue eyes and too much the pent-up, misguided aggression, is losing his reasons to look sad in moments of perceived vulnerability. Mickey’s never really known what ‘home’ feels like, but he thinks this might be it.

 

* * *

It’s not until later, when they’re both well-fucked and sprawled together over the damp grass of the pitch, Ian drawing absent patterns over Mickey’s palm, Mickey smoking a red, that he says, voice hard, “Look, Ian, I know the rest of your family hasn’t seemed to give a fuck these last three years, so I dunno what their deal is, but I only worry ‘cause I fuckin’ care, okay?”

“I know,” Ian says quietly. “It’s just… a lot, you know? I’m used to dealing with shit on my own. I’m sorry.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah, well, you got me now. Just talk to me.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” Ian’s quiet for a while before he says, softly, “I listened to my voicemails.”

Mickey freezes instantly. He knows exactly what Ian’s referring to; his hand begins to shake where it’s holding the cigarette. So he takes another drag to calm his nerves and says, “Yeah?” as casually as he can through the smoke on exhale, trying desperately not to let panic color his tone. 

“Yeah,” Ian says, fingers suddenly scraping against Mickey’s. “Did you mean it?”

Mickey wonders desperately how he can get out of this, how he can back down without either making himself vulnerable or hurting Ian. So he clears his throat, tilts his head until he’s staring up at the wispy clouds that streak the sky, and says quietly but determinedly, “I wouldn’t’ve fucking said it if I didn’t.”

Ian shifts, then, until he’s leaning over Mickey, caging him in with his limbs. He has the biggest fucking smile on his face, like Mickey’s just told him he single-handedly found a cure for cancer, saved the world poverty crises, and discovered the meaning of life all in one day. It’s almost too much – Mickey feels like he’s looking into the fucking son, or something. He hasn’t see Ian smile this brightly since before he left for the army. It hurts in a good way, in a sad way, in a way that Mickey can’t describe.

“I love you too, Mick,” Ian says, still grinning, before he kisses the tip of Mickey nose and flops back over onto the grass. Mickey’s left red-faced and, embarrassingly enough, achingly hard again. His skin is burning, his stomach turning.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Mickey says. 

“Good thing you love assholes, then, huh.” 

Mickey smiles to himself, relaxing back against the grass and closing his eyes. They can deal with his boner later. “Ain’t that the truth.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> title is a quote taken from Ernest Hemingway's _A Farewell To Arms_.


End file.
